


Reminders

by altilis



Series: Building Bridges [7]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Community: kink_bingo, Gen, Pre-Slash, Scarification, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/altilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Frigga will always be his mother, no matter what he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminders

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever.

Large tapestries hang from every wall of Frigga’s sewing room, each one years and years of meticulous work. They give him something to look at, something to distract him from the pain in his hand and the simmering anger that no one will let him finish the Bifröst at his own pace. His only consolation is that the couch here is soft.

"Is your work so dangerous, Loki?" Frigga asks him as she pours a thick, stinging healing solution over his hand and lets it drip down into the bowl underneath. The wound at his palm stings far worse than it did on the bridge or when she had pulled the small, thin shard of crystal from the wound. Pain cuts through his exhaustion and his hunger, but it leaves him irritable.

"Surely you can see my _work_ as clearly as anyone else in this city."

Frigga frowns, and Loki feels guilty for being short with her, but he doesn't apologize for it. The way the morning has gone already, he'd only make it worse, and he doesn't want to test his mother's (supposedly) unconditional love. Could he even call her his mother, still? Did he have to surrender that privilege, too?

"There is no need for you to injure yourself," Frigga says despite Loki's words, apparently taking it in stride like a mother and a queen. Loki feels another pang of guilt, though he's not quite sure why, but it dissolves into panic when Frigga sets down the pitcher and picks up a jar of healing balm. He jerks his hand back, and Frigga looks at him with refreshed concern. "Loki?"

"Let it scar," he says, as steady as he can manage. He didn't plan for this when he woke up some days ago, nor when he followed his mother to her palace, but now that he's at the crossroads, he wants it. The scar will remind him of his folly and labor when he's finished with the bridge and Asgard passes through another peaceful millennium. He needs this ugly, jagged thing where he can see it, so he won’t make the same mistake again.

Frigga reaches out to take his hand again. "But it will be such a needless mark..."

Loki keeps his own hand out of reach, swallows, and says, "Mother, please." That's all he can give her, and after a moment's pause she takes it, setting the balm aside.

"At least allow me to wrap it." Frigga still holds her hand out for his, and Loki grudgingly offers it back to her. She takes a soft bandage from the kit and wraps his hand firmly but gently, and ties it off at the wrist. Loki lets her do the same for his left hand, which is less abused, but he still keeps a wary eye on the balm jar, just in case. When she finishes, he pulls back his hand and flexes his fingers slowly. It'll do.

"Now, I think it's time we had breakfast." Frigga stands from the bed and walks to the wide archway of the room before Loki can formulate a protest. She calls out for her ladies in waiting, and they come in with platters of sausages and eggs and toast and pitchers of juice. Loki's mouth waters at the sight. It’s been a while since he’s had the luxury.

"Mother," he says quietly as he pushes himself to his feet. His arms ache and his head spins. "I’m not certain that I may—”

"Nonsense." She takes him by the elbow and coaxes (drags) him over to the table, sits him down and then takes a seat beside him. "I have heard of the meals you take for yourself in the kitchens. You ate ten times as much at the table before, and yet you are doing more work than ever." Loki thinks of protesting with the fact he had to battle and spar with Thor more often than Asgard would know, and that magic takes more energy than meets the eye, but Frigga would know this, so he lets that argument die among his thoughts. Frigga scoops food onto his plate when Loki makes no move to take his own.

"Some would say that a slow starvation is part of my punishment," he says after a few ponderous moments when he can't see the bottom of the plate, and Frigga stops. She sets down the silver serving spoon back into the dish of scrambled eggs, and she places her hand on his shoulder. Her grip digs in, reminding him with a terrifying strength that she, too, was a warrior once; Loki winces.

"I will not hear such things," she says in a tone that would make the All-father cower. "Nor will I let them come to pass. Your father does not intend to torture you, Loki. He only wishes that you may be a prince of Asgard again, with no debt upon your shoulders."

There are so many arguments he could bring to life and yell at the top of his lungs, how Odin's plans have never quite worked out and how he always seems to be the one who suffers from those failures—but he's too tired to muster the anger, and he doesn’t want to unleash it on Frigga anymore than he has. At a loss of what else to do, he picks up a fork and starts to eat whatever has made it onto his plate.

  
He eats more than he has in a long, long time, coronation feasts included, and it's too much. He's about ready to fall asleep at the table when Frigga notices his lethargy and tells him to take one of the large, plush couches in the adjacent lounge.

The last thing he sees before he sleeps is Frigga sitting at her spinning wheel.

\--

Loki wakes up to see Frigga still sitting there with a different spool, but this time he sees Thor sitting next to her on a too-small stool, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Their conversation is but a murmur, nothing Loki can actually discern. As he pushes himself to sit up, Thor looks over and grins. "Are you rested, Loki?"

"As rested as I'll ever be," Loki replies as he stretches. His muscles still feel stiff and his shoulders are sore, but he'll manage to get back to his own room. A glance out the window shows that the sun is already falling; time to go to sleep again. When he stands, Thor stands, too, and Loki frowns. "I'm only returning to my quarters."

"I will walk with you."

"I don't need the escort, Thor." Loki straightens his shirt as he walks for the door, but when he reaches the grand marble archway, Thor is at his side. For his mother's sake, he doesn't shove Thor away, but he's tempted. Loki looks to Frigga, who simply gives him a smile and a nod, and he resigns to walking out of Fensalir with unwanted company. He doesn't try to make conversation on the way back, too wrapped up in his own thoughts, and Thor seems content to walk just one step behind him. Maybe he'll get all the way to his own bed without a word.

"Loki," Thor lays a hand on his shoulder as they enter Thor's chambers, firmly anchoring Loki to the spot and keeping him from darting off to his own sanctuary. "You don't intend to stay out there for so long again, do you?"

He looked at Thor with his most unimpressed expression. "And if I did?" he asked, rolling his shoulder out from under Thor's grip and stepping back from him. Thor steps forward and Loki steps back again until his hand can rest on the handle of his door.

"You should not." Thor says, and Loki rolls his eyes.

"Why? Afraid I'll cut myself again?"

That causes Thor to hesitate, and a wicked sense of accomplishment fills Loki. He's getting his brother to _think_. "Not afraid, but on so meaningless a task…"

"Meaningless." Loki's grip tightens around the door handle, and then he slowly lets go. "Maybe meaningless to you—it's not your citizenship. What about all the childish things you have done, and all the marks you have from them? Wrestling goats, fighting Freyr, challenging the dwarves, racing through Muspelheim!" Each account comes with a jab: to the shoulder, the stomach, the arm, the hip. Thor stands there like the impassive, immovable rock he is, and Loki clenches his hand so tight his palm starts to hurt again. "I didn't question you then, Thor, when you were bleeding all over the place, so don't question me now."

"And your back?"

The question makes him pause. "My back? That wasn't my doing, if you will recall. It's healed well enough."

"Let me see the marks."

"Why? They're mine."

"And caused by _my_ hands."

They stare at each other for a long moment until Loki turns to open the door to his room. "Fine," he says, "you can admire your handiwork."

The crystal overhead gives the room a warm orange glow that mimics the sunset outside, a light that will slowly dim to blackness. Against the wall, another crystal hums behind thick glass as it gives off waves of flameless heat. Thor sits down at the edge of his bed as Loki walks over to turn down the heat; it's always too much, making the room too warm and stifling.

Then, reluctantly, Loki pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the weaved hamper in the corner. He sits on the bed with his back to Thor and waits, his hands picking at the threads of the bed cover. The bandage on his right palm is spotted red already, and Loki wonders if Thor has any around here that he could use when he feels Thor's thumb press to his back, right between his shoulder blades.

Loki gasps. Of course Thor would go for one of the sensitive scars, one of the deepest scars, and let his fingernail turn into the tender groove of Loki's skin. Of course he would go for the one Loki can't reach, so the sensation cuts his breath short when he finally feels it.

"Apologies," Thor murmurs, and his hand moves on to the lower and lighter scars.

"No need," Loki brushes it off, even as his chest remains tight and his back is tense with anticipation. What he's expecting, he doesn't know. At this point, he expects everything. Anything.

"I could have given you more balm for this." Is that regret he spies in Thor's voice? It sounds so strange, here and now, especially about something Thor did himself (and so well!) that Loki can't help but chuckle.

"Don't pretend, Thor." Loki turns in his seat to face him and to put an end to his explorations. Thor catches his gaze, and Loki's not sure if there's pity, regret, annoyance, or sadness behind those blue eyes. He tells himself he doesn't care. "You lashed me well. Take pride in your work."

"You know I never wanted to," Thor says as he stands. Loki doesn't rise with him, merely watches as Thor walks to the door and pauses at the threshold. "Work light if you work at all, tomorrow."

"I'll remember your kind advice, never fear," Loki replies with a smile, and Thor gives him a guarded look before leaving him alone.

  
Work commences the next day, but not at the bridge. Instead, Loki busies himself with domestic tasks around his own tiny room and Thor's grand chambers: dusting, getting the laundry sorted out for the (other) servants, and polishing the pieces of decorative armor he hasn't seen since Thor's would-be coronation.

He sits at the window seat while he polishes silver gauntlets, occasionally looking up to watch hawks fly over the city. Unlike his helmet, Thor's gauntlets share no elements with the birds: no nice feathers, no wings, no talons. These pieces are all about lightning with jagged motifs along the forearms and angry clouds swirling out along the tops of the digits.

After he's done, he places the gauntlets back on their stand and tosses the dirty rag in the hamper. He finds a nice set of fresh bandages in the bathroom—that wasn't there before—and sits at the window seat again as he changes the blood-stained linen around his hand. With his palm exposed, Loki examines the cuts left after his mother's tender care. The dark red lines are thin, uneven, and Loki takes a moment to try and find a hint of a rune among them, but nothing looks quite familiar.

But it reminds him of something that lies right out of his reach. He tilts his head back against the wall and stares up at the high ceiling, painted centuries upon centuries ago when Thor was still a child and yearned for the sky to be close at hand. Clouds are painted against the starry blue— _cirrus, cumulus, alto-stratus, nimbo-stratus_ —why can he remember these names but not what he wants?

Then his gaze falls on the imposing cumulo-nimbus that hovers over the door with its rain and lightning, and suddenly Loki knows. He holds up his hand in front of him so his palm lies in the foreground, the cloud in the background, and the newly-healing scar emulates all the sharp angles of the classic, symbolic thunderbolt.

He's not sure whether to curse, or scream, or find a knife to change the marks into something else. In the end, he does nothing, only sets his jaw while he wraps a fresh bandage around each palm. It's only a scar, he tells himself. No one else will notice.

Except Thor. For as much as his brother ignores his surroundings, he's attentive enough to recognize one of his favorite symbols. He'll be curious about these, and Loki almost shivers at the thought of Thor's thumb pressing against his hand, feeling the groove of the mark like he did with the lashes at Loki's back.

It's only a scar, and he'll keep it to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> [Also at Dreamwidth.](http://altilis.dreamwidth.org/31935.html)


End file.
